“Hey… I miss you. Call me back?” The voicemail played on a loop, your own voice now haunting you more than comforting. Fede hadn’t responded. But you pictured him lying in bed, listening. Maybe replaying it like you imagined he would. Maybe thinking about you too.

You weren’t drunk but just tipsy enough to let honesty slip past your pride. Just enough courage to say what you still felt… and enough wine to pretend it didn’t matter if it backfired.

Somewhere, you hoped he’d hear it and feel something and maybe he did.

Fede replayed your voicemail one more time. Then, finally, he called.